Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison

by Arthur Morrison

  Hewitt looked up at the grimy fronts of the old buildings. The windows were crusted thick with dirt — all except the bottom window of the house nearer the bank, which was fairly clean, and seemed to have been quite lately washed. The door, too, of this house was cleaner than that of the other, though the paint was worn. Hewitt reached and fingered a hook driven into the left-hand doorpost about six feet from the ground. It was new, and not at all rusted; also a tiny splinter had been displaced when the hook was driven in, and clean wood showed at the spot.

  Having observed these things, Hewitt stepped back and read at the bottom of the big board the name, “Winsor & Weekes, Surveyors and Auctioneers, Abchurch Lane.” Then he stepped into Lombard Street.

  Two hansoms pulled up near the post-office, and out of the first stepped Inspector Plummer and another man. This man and the two who alighted from the second hansom were unmistakably plain-clothes constables — their air, gait, and boots proclaimed it.

  “What’s all this?” demanded Plummer, as Hewitt approached.

  “You’ll soon see, I think. But, first, have you put the watch on No. 197, Hackworth Road?”

  “Yes; nobody will get away from there alone.”

  “Very good. I am going into Abchurch Lane for a few minutes. Leave your men out here, but just go round into the court by Buller, Clayton & Ladds’s, and keep your eye on the first door on the left. I think we’ll find something soon. Did you get rid of Miss Shaw?”

  “No, she’s behind now, and Mrs. Laker’s with her. They met in the Strand, and came after us in another cab. Rare fun, eh! They think we’re pretty green! It’s quite handy, too. So long as they keep behind me it saves all trouble of watching them.” And Inspector Plummer chuckled and winked.

  “Very good. You don’t mind keeping your eye on that door, do you? I’ll be back very soon,” and with that Hewitt turned off into Abchurch Lane.

  At Winsor & Weekes’s information was not difficult to obtain. The houses were destined to come down very shortly, but a week or so ago an office and a cellar in one of them was let temporarily to a Mr. Westley. He brought no references; indeed, as he paid a fortnight’s rent in advance, he was not asked for any, considering the circumstances of the case. He was opening a London branch for a large firm of cider merchants, he said, and just wanted a rough office and a cool cellar to store samples in for a few weeks till the permanent premises were ready. There was another key, and no doubt the premises might be entered if there were any special need for such a course. Martin Hewitt gave such excellent reasons that Winsor & Weekes’s managing clerk immediately produced the key and accompanied Hewitt to the spot.

  “I think you’d better have your men handy,” Hewitt remarked to Plummer when they reached the door, and a whistle quickly brought the men over.

  The key was inserted in the lock and turned, but the door would not open; the bolt was fastened at the bottom. Hewitt stooped and looked under the door.

  “It’s a drop bolt,” he said. “Probably the man who left last let it fall loose, and then banged the door, so that it fell into its place. I must try my best with a wire or a piece of string.”

  A wire was brought, and with some manœuvring Hewitt contrived to pass it round the bolt, and lift it little by little, steadying it with the blade of a pocket-knife. When at length the bolt was raised out of the hole, the knife-blade was slipped under it, and the door swung open.

  They entered. The door of the little office just inside stood open, but in the office there was nothing, except a board a couple of feet long in a corner. Hewitt stepped across and lifted this, turning its downward face toward Plummer. On it, in fresh white paint on a black ground, were painted the words —

  “Buller, Clayton, Ladds & Co.,. Temporary Entrance.”

  Hewitt turned to Winsor & Weekes’s clerk and asked, “The man who took this room called himself Westley, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Youngish man, clean-shaven, and well-dressed?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “I fancy,” Hewitt said, turning to Plummer, “I fancy an old friend of yours is in this — Mr. Sam Gunter.”

  “What, the ‘Hoxton Yob’?”

  “I think it’s possible he’s been Mr. Westley for a bit, and somebody else for another bit. But let’s come to the cellar.”

  Winsor & Weekes’s clerk led the way down a steep flight of steps into a dark underground corridor, wherein they lighted their way with many successive matches. Soon the corridor made a turn to the right, and as the party passed the turn, there came from the end of the passage before them a fearful yell.

  “Help! help! Open the door! I’m going mad — mad! O my God!”

  And there was a sound of desperate beating from the inside of the cellar door at the extreme end. The men stopped, startled.

  “Come,” said Hewitt, “more matches!” and he rushed to the door. It was fastened with a bar and padlock.

  “Let me out, for God’s sake!” came the voice, sick and hoarse, from the inside. “Let me out!”

  “All right!” Hewitt shouted. “We have come for you. Wait a moment.”

  The voice sank into a sort of sobbing croon, and Hewitt tried several keys from his own bunch on the padlock. None fitted. He drew from his pocket the wire he had used for the bolt of the front door, straightened it out, and made a sharp bend at the end.

  “Hold a match close,” he ordered shortly, and one of the men obeyed. Three or four attempts were necessary, and several different bendings of the wire were effected, but in the end Hewitt picked the lock, and flung open the door.

  From within a ghastly figure fell forward among them fainting, and knocked out the matches.

  “Hullo!” cried Plummer. “Hold up! Who are you?”

  “Let’s get him up into the open,” said Hewitt. “He can’t tell you who he is for a bit, but I believe he’s Laker.”

  “Laker! What, here?”

  “I think so. Steady up the steps. Don’t bump him. He’s pretty sore already, I expect.”

  Truly the man was a pitiable sight. His hair and face were caked in dust and blood, and his finger-nails were torn and bleeding. Water was sent for at once, and brandy.

  “Well,” said Plummer hazily, looking first at the unconscious prisoner and then at Hewitt, “but what about the swag?”

  “You’ll have to find that yourself,” Hewitt replied. “I think my share of the case is about finished. I only act for the Guarantee Society, you know, and if Laker’s proved innocent — —”

  “Innocent! How?”

  “Well, this is what took place, as near as I can figure it. You’d better undo his collar, I think” — this to the men. “What I believe has happened is this. There has been a very clever and carefully prepared conspiracy here, and Laker has not been the criminal, but the victim.”

  “Been robbed himself, you mean? But how? Where?”

  “Yesterday morning, before he had been to more than three banks — here, in fact.”

  “But then how? You’re all wrong. We know he made the whole round, and did all the collection. And then Palmer’s office, and all, and the umbrella; why — —”

  The man lay still unconscious. “Don’t raise his head,” Hewitt said. “And one of you had best fetch a doctor. He’s had a terrible shock.” Then turning to Plummer he went on, “As to how they managed the job I’ll tell you what I think. First it struck some very clever person that a deal of money might be got by robbing a walk-clerk from a bank. This clever person was one of a clever gang of thieves — perhaps the Hoxton Row gang, as I think I hinted. Now you know quite as well as I do that such a gang will spend any amount of time over a job that promises a big haul, and that for such a job they can always command the necessary capital. There are many most respectable persons living in good style in the suburbs whose chief business lies in financing such ventures, and taking the chief share of the proceeds. Well, this is their plan, carefully and intelligently carried out. They watch Laker, observe
the round he takes, and his habits. They find that there is only one of the clerks with whom he does business that he is much acquainted with, and that this clerk is in a bank which is commonly second in Laker’s round. The sharpest man among them — and I don’t think there’s a man in London could do this as well as young Sam Gunter — studies Laker’s dress and habits just as an actor studies a character. They take this office and cellar, as we have seen, because it is next door to a bank whose front entrance is being altered — a fact which Laker must know from his daily visits. The smart man — Gunter, let us say, and I have other reasons for believing it to be he — makes up precisely like Laker, false moustache, dress, and everything, and waits here with the rest of the gang. One of the gang is dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons, like a hall-porter in Buller’s bank. Do you see?”

  “Yes, I think so. It’s pretty clear now.”

  “A confederate watches at the top of the court, and the moment Laker turns in from Cornhill — having already been, mind, at the only bank where he was so well known that the disguised thief would not have passed muster — as soon as he turns in from Cornhill, I say, a signal is given, and that board” — pointing to that with the white letters— “is hung on the hook in the doorpost. The sham porter stands beside it, and as Laker approaches says, ‘This way in, sir, this morning. The front way’s shut for the alterations.’ Laker, suspecting nothing, and supposing that the firm have made a temporary entrance through the empty house, enters. He is seized when well along the corridor, the board is taken down and the door shut. Probably he is stunned by a blow on the head — see the blood now. They take his wallet and all the cash he has already collected. Gunter takes the wallet and also the umbrella, since it has Laker’s initials, and is therefore distinctive. He simply completes the walk in the character of Laker, beginning with Buller, Clayton & Ladds’s just round the corner. It is nothing but routine work, which is quickly done, and nobody notices him particularly — it is the bills they examine. Meanwhile this unfortunate fellow is locked up in the cellar here, right at the end of the underground corridor, where he can never make himself heard in the street, and where next him are only the empty cellars of the deserted house next door. The thieves shut the front door and vanish. The rest is plain. Gunter, having completed the round, and bagged some £15,000 or more, spends a few pounds in a tourist ticket at Palmer’s as a blind, being careful to give Laker’s name. He leaves the umbrella at Charing Cross in a conspicuous place right opposite the lost property office, where it is sure to be seen, and so completes his false trail.”

  “Then who are the people at 197, Hackworth Road?”

  “The capitalist lives there — the financier, and probably the directing spirit of the whole thing. Merston’s the name he goes by there, and I’ve no doubt he cuts a very imposing figure in chapel every Sunday. He’ll be worth picking up — this isn’t the first thing he’s been in, I’ll warrant.”

  “But — but what about Laker’s mother and Miss Shaw?”

  “Well, what? The poor women are nearly out of their minds with terror and shame, that’s all, but though they may think Laker a criminal, they’ll never desert him. They’ve been following us about with a feeble, vague sort of hope of being able to baffle us in some way or help him if we caught him, or something, poor things. Did you ever hear of a real woman who’d desert a son or a lover merely because he was a criminal? But here’s the doctor. When he’s attended to him will you let your men take Laker home? I must hurry and report to the Guarantee Society, I think.”

  “But,” said the perplexed Plummer, “where did you get your clue? You must have had a tip from some one, you know — you can’t have done it by clairvoyance. What gave you the tip?”

  “The Daily Chronicle.”

  “The what?”

  “The Daily Chronicle. Just take a look at the ‘agony column’ in yesterday morning’s issue, and read the message to ‘Yob’ — to Gunter, in fact. That’s all.”

  By this time a cab was waiting in Lombard Street, and two of Plummer’s men, under the doctor’s directions, carried Laker to it. No sooner, however, were they in the court than the two watching women threw themselves hysterically upon Laker, and it was long before they could be persuaded that he was not being taken to gaol. The mother shrieked aloud, “My boy — my boy! Don’t take him! Oh, don’t take him! They’ve killed my boy! Look at his head — oh, his head!” and wrestled desperately with the men, while Hewitt attempted to soothe her, and promised to allow her to go in the cab with her son if she would only be quiet. The younger woman made no noise, but she held one of Laker’s limp hands in both hers.

  Hewitt and I dined together that evening, and he gave me a full account of the occurrences which I have here set down. Still, when he was finished I was not able to see clearly by what process of reasoning he had arrived at the conclusions that gave him the key to the mystery, nor did I understand the “agony column” message, and I said so.

  “In the beginning,” Hewitt explained, “the thing that struck me as curious was the fact that Laker was said to have given his own name at Palmer’s in buying his ticket. Now, the first thing the greenest and newest criminal thinks of is changing his name, so that the giving of his own name seemed unlikely to begin with. Still, he might have made such a mistake, as Plummer suggested when he said that criminals usually make a mistake somewhere — as they do, in fact. Still, it was the least likely mistake I could think of — especially as he actually didn’t wait to be asked for his name, but blurted it out when it wasn’t really wanted. And it was conjoined with another rather curious mistake, or what would have been a mistake if the thief were Laker. Why should he conspicuously display his wallet — such a distinctive article — for the clerk to see and note? Why rather had he not got rid of it before showing himself? Suppose it should be somebody personating Laker? In any case I determined not to be prejudiced by what I had heard of Laker’s betting. A man may bet without being a thief.

  “But, again, supposing it were Laker? Might he not have given his name, and displayed his wallet, and so on, while buying a ticket for France, in order to draw pursuit after himself in that direction while he made off in another, in another name, and disguised? Each supposition was plausible. And, in either case, it might happen that whoever was laying this trail would probably lay it a little farther. Charing Cross was the next point, and there I went. I already had it from Plummer that Laker had not been recognised there. Perhaps the trail had been laid in some other manner. Something left behind with Laker’s name on it, perhaps? I at once thought of the umbrella with his monogram, and, making a long shot, asked for it at the lost property office, as you know. The guess was lucky. In the umbrella, as you know, I found that scrap of paper. That, I judged, had fallen in from the hand of the man carrying the umbrella. He had torn the paper in half in order to fling it away, and one piece had fallen into the loosely flapping umbrella. It is a thing that will often happen with an omnibus ticket, as you may have noticed. Also, it was proved that the umbrella was unrolled when found, and rolled immediately after. So here was a piece of paper dropped by the person who had brought the umbrella to Charing Cross and left it. I got the whole advertisement, as you remember, and I studied it. ‘Yob’ is back-slang for ‘boy,’ and it is often used in nicknames to denote a young smooth-faced thief. Gunter, the man I suspect, as a matter of fact, is known as the ‘Hoxton Yob.’ The message, then, was addressed to some one known by such a nickname. Next, ‘H.R. shop roast.’ Now, in thieves’ slang, to ‘roast’ a thing or a person is to watch it or him. They call any place a shop — notably, a thieves’ den. So that this meant that some resort — perhaps the ‘Hoxton Row shop’ — was watched. ‘You 1st then to-night’ would be clearer, perhaps, when the rest was understood. I thought a little over the rest, and it struck me that it must be a direction to some other house, since one was warned of as being watched. Besides, there was the number, 197, and ‘red bl.,’ which would be extremely likely to mean ‘r
ed blinds,’ by way of clearly distinguishing the house. And then the plan of the thing was plain. You have noticed, probably, that the map of London which accompanies the Post Office Directory is divided, for convenience of reference, into numbered squares?”

  “Yes. The squares are denoted by letters along the top margin and figures down the side. So that if you consult the directory, and find a place marked as being in D 5, for instance, you find vertical divisions D, and run your finger down it till it intersects horizontal division 5, and there you are.”

  “Precisely. I got my Post Office Directory, and looked for ‘O 2.’ It was in North London, and took in parts of Abney Park Cemetery and Clissold Park; ‘2nd top’ was the next sign. Very well, I counted the second street intersecting the top of the square — counting, in the usual way, from the left. That was Lordship Road. Then, ‘3rd L.’ From the point where Lordship Road crossed the top of the square, I ran my finger down the road till it came to ‘3rd L,’ or, in other words, the third turning on the left — Hackworth Road. So there we were, unless my guesses were altogether wrong. ‘Straight mon’ probably meant ‘straight moniker’ — that is to say, the proper name, a thief’s real name, in contradistinction to that he may assume. I turned over the directory till I found Hackworth Road, and found that No. 197 was inhabited by a Mr. Merston. From the whole thing I judged this. There was to have been a meeting at the ‘H.R. shop,’ but that was found, at the last moment, to be watched by the police for some purpose, so that another appointment was made for this house in the suburbs. ‘You 1st. Then to-night’ — the person addressed was to come first, and the others in the evening. They were to ask for the householder’s ‘straight moniker’ — Mr. Merston. And they were to come one at a time.